They Wrote That Every Survivor Was a Hero
by maguena1
Summary: Chekov is having a hard time recovering from a bad accident.  What's the point of planting things, anyway?


**Title:** They Wrote That Every Survivor Was A Hero

**Author:** Maguena

**Disclaimer: **Star Trek and all its characters belong to Paramount, not me. No infringement intended.

**Note:** Fluffy gen. Christmassy fluffy gen. Criticism welcomed with open arms

**Soundtrack and source of title:** Pesnya Ryadovogo (Soldier's Song), by Belaya Gvardiya. They make many of their songs available on the internet, and this song can currently be downloaded from http :// www . bgvmusic . ru / mp3 . htm (deleting all the spaces, naturally). Look for the blue "Mp3:" label, below which are groups of links. Right-click and save on the first link in the second group. The English title is used in the link name, so you can check if you've got the right one. If somebody enjoys the song and wants to know what the lyrics mean, drop me a line and I will do my best to translate. It's not a happy song, but then, I am not entirely comfortable with fluff. So think of this as the darker undertone to the story, the alternative way it could have gone in any universe but the ST:TOS one. And though this story is written for Steff, it is also in honor of all the people who helped someone achieve a goal, and got nothing but dismissal.

_"Why am I doing this?"_ he thought resentfully as he yanked a plant out of the ground and tossed it onto the meager pile of other plants. He didn't care what classes Nurse Chapel had taken - plant therapy, or whatever other "tranquil" names they gave it, just was stupid. Not like there was a point to it. Grubbing in the dirt of a "garden" that filled up one small room of the ship, a garden that didn't even have any tasty plants in it - no sweet berries or astringent sorrel to pop into his mouth, the sole two reasons he had ever helped out in the tiny garden at their family dacha. Sure it was all carefully laid out and pretty and conducive to meditation and all that other crap, but none of that made up for being _useless_.

He finished de-weeding about a meter more of the path's edge, and rocked back onto his heels, straightening his back with disgusting creakings, jolts within his body that he could feel but not hear. He jumped up and paced about, unable to stand much more of this. The tiny path curved around a stand of blue bushes, to an even tinier artificial stream - he could hear the water surging down its channel. He stepped around the bushes and dunked his grubby hands into the stream - felt good, cold, clean. Wrists flopping madly, like ducks trying to take off, he stepped over the stream, then broke into a run. Felt good, just to be moving so free, free just until he hit the wall, but he slapped it instead in a smooth turn, heading back just like the coach taught him. He'd have gone running more, but his feet slowed down near the pile of weeds that already looked wilted. Again, he knelt and tried to finish his task. Afterwards, he could plant something, Christine had told him, just for himself, but not like he had a very wide selection, here. Even one more bush wouldn't fit, much less a tree. He liked planting trees - during youth camp, when they were all helping replant a forest, he'd really gotten into it. All his friends had been there, that summer, and they called to each other, joking, telling stories, laughing over grunts of effort of holding the saplings up high enough off the ground to get the burlap off. He'd been so clumsy that summer, but nobody minded, so long as he did his share of work. He'd been useful, and he had been so proud, knowing that he was doing his share of vital work.

What had that poem been? "What do we plant, planting forests?" Marshak, yes, that's who wrote it, and his papa had read it to him. Funny how he'd forgotten until just a moment ago. He repeated it under his breath, liking the strong rhythm of it, "_Cho_ my sa_ja_yem, sa_ja_ya le_sa_?" Now, how did the next line go? He used to be able to repeat this from memory, had, in fact, recited it for a class assignment… As he remembered, there were several stanzas, all starting with this question, but which was the first one?  
"_Mach_ty i _re_i, der_jat'_ paru_sa_." He grinned to himself. Well, figured that he'd remember that one first, considering where he was and what he did for a living. Though the days of ships made of wood were long gone - all metals and molded plastics now, and no need to hold up any sails - he was still grinning as he recited the part about "to wander the seas, stormy and calm."

But there was more to it. Why plant forests, indeed? In fact, replicators could do so much, why did some people still use traditional materials at all? The forest they had been replanting that summer was intended for paper production, for the small fraction of people who still wanted to hold books in their hands, and the country was rich enough to indulge them. Like it was rich enough to let an out-of-work navigator...

His smile faded, and he found himself rubbing one ear roughly, as if that would do something. As if it would be useful. He jumped up again to run. This time, he found himself matching the rhythm of his steps to the rhyme. He slowed down to a fast walk, and tried clenching and unclenching his fists to release some tension. His fingers were still a bit stiff, but they would heal in a few more days. So conceivably, he could retrain himself. Do something with his hands for a living. He didn't have to stop working, didn't have to be a burden to society, didn't have to be undeserving - but he couldn't be a Starfleet officer anymore.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door slide open and Christine enter, but he walked on, away from her and her well-meaning efforts. Then the wall was too close, and he had to stop, but he didn't want to turn. Was she yelling for his attention, forgetting for a moment that he didn't hear her? Well, he thought with sudden viciousness, he didn't forget.

He still jumped when her hand touched his shoulder. He turned to see her looking at him, an unhappy expression on her face. Quashing his uncharitable thoughts, he looked back, waiting. She mimed writing with a pen, and he took out and gave her the padd and stylus that he always had to carry now.

"How are things going?" she wrote.

"Fine," he answered. He had no idea how the word came out, but he hated the idea of not talking. Christine had supported him enthusiastically in this, saying something about it being a good sign of his ability to adapt. In reality, he did it because opening his mouth when he wanted to talk was natural. The other thing - his hand wouldn't turn to take out the padd.

She frowned at him. "You don't sound fine," she wrote.

"I'm having difficulty with vocal modulation, you know." There, that would show her that he'd paid attention to all the information she'd given him.

She gave him a skeptical look, and started scribbling again. "I know you can't help being upset by what happened, but I wish you'd cheer up. It's Christmas. I came by to invite you to the party."

"Russians don't celebrate Christmas, Christine."

Smiling fondly, she wrote, "Who cares? It's an excuse to party and be with people, so come on."

When he shrugged in response, she added, her hand flicking forcefully over the padd, "You've been avoiding people. What are you afraid of? Everybody understands, and they sympathize with what happened."

Pavel had to repress another grimace. He still hadn't written his parents, and he couldn't put it off much longer, given that New Year's was coming, and they would be expecting a letter. They'd always read out letters from absent family members at the New Year's celebration, as a way of feeling closer. And how could he be honest with them, and yet write them that letter? He would ruin the celebration entirely. _"I have been injured and gone deaf. I will have to leave Starfleet if this surgery doesn't work - and the chances are bad - so expect to see your son in a few months."_ They were expecting to hear about his first year in Starfleet, his triumphs. They'd be sympathetic; they would do everything in their power to make him feel better and find him things to do - just like Christine, in fact - and they would be just as bad at it as Christine. Make-work didn't change anything. _Who doesn't work, doesn't eat._ He'd heard the proverb since infancy, and it wasn't true, because nobody would let him starve - that was the worst of all.

A padd was thrust in his face, startling him. He snatched at it, giving Christine an accusatory look at the same time. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're going to be fine, and while you wait, you could at least try to be civil," it read.

"But I'm not going to be fine," he said, aloud for the first time.

Christine's face softened, and she took the padd back, patting his hand in the process. "I am your nurse, and I can tell you that your chances of regaining your hearing are excellent, especially if you are patient and wait until the rest of your body has healed. And even if the surgery fails, you'll be able to deal with it."

"No," he said, but his denial was softer this time.

She just smiled at him. "Come to the party, it's all I can do for you at the moment," she wrote, and without waiting for his answer, started towing him out into the hall.

He thought about resisting. Instead, he smiled back at her, even though she wasn't looking, and went along.

He could feel the deck vibrating as they approached the mess hall, and when the door opened, he could feel the force of the sound blasting out. He leaned close to Christine's ear. "That's your smart plan? To make everyone deaf to match me?"

Her body shook with laughter. "Stay here," she mouthed, and dashed off in the direction of the bar. The next thing he knew, Sulu was weaving towards him through the crowd, obviously happy to see him. Looking at Sulu, it became impossible to keep thinking that keeping himself quiet and low was for the best, and he moved forward to meet his friend.

For the rest of the night, he was busy catching up with people, dancing with the women when the beat became powerful enough to feel, drinking the drinks that people kept offering him (and out-drinking Sulu!), and rediscovering how happy it was possible for him to be. To his amazement, he saw that they really appreciated his "sacrifice." He wouldn't call it that - he hadn't had time to think of the potential consequences when disaster came. Yet it was good to know that people respected the price he'd paid. He caught sight of Christine, pink-cheeked as she whirled around the dance floor, and yelled "Thank you!" at her. Then he let himself be caught under the mistletoe a couple of times. When he stumbled off to his quarters in the early morning, he was finally feeling more than alive.


End file.
